


Six Souls

by Auraspirit157



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Awesome violence, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Gods and Goddesses, Original Story - Freeform, Tags of all kinds!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auraspirit157/pseuds/Auraspirit157
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A world, divided by the former Divines, remains in peaceful separation. Humans above, demons below. From their slumber in the souls of mortals, the Divines shall awaken once again. Only true Gods prevail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Spencer, Allison, Albert and Juan; the most unlikely group of gaming friends I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. 
> 
> Perhaps we'll meet in person someday.

**Six Souls – Prologue**

Zelophehad let his feet touch the burnt, ashen battleground. It wasn't often that he descended from the sky, but he broke away from his divine perch to assess the latest damage to his creation. The god felt strange in mortal skin, so delicate compared to the astral presence he projects from above. One of all seeing eyes, composed of the very stars that hung above. Now he only saw like a human would, though still far superior. Any creature that came across him would be able to feel his immeasurable power.

He traverses the remains of a fallen village, virtually abandoned by its previous inhabitants. Even bodies had already been consumed by the Waning, their souls reaped by the higher phases. All that remained now was a barren, empty shell of life. Such energy tore at the Creating God, one who had built the world around human monuments.

A dirt path, trampled by the rushing feet of mortal creatures, lead in winding precision to a marble temple. Though ridden with cracks and stained with the aftermath of war, it was the only place still standing. Zelophehad could tell by its construction of quartz that it had been built for Oriana. Such trivial things, he thinks, monuments to him and fellow Divines. He could never grasp the mortal desire to dedicate such things to them.

He feels a small presence within the temple's walls. The God steps through its marble archway, his omniscient eyes falling on a young man and woman. The later was with child, sitting on the floor and leaning heavily against a fallen pillar.

Zelophehad treads closer to the strangers, troubled by their standing in such a dangerous land. He remains unnoticed, being invisible to the mortal eye, as he inspects the child. He is deathly pale, his expression gaunt through a gentle, hopeful smile.

"It's peaceful here," the boy says, his voice hoarse but still relatively strong, "It must have been built by Zelophehad himself."

The praise in the boy's tone makes the God's heart wrench in a painful tie. Mortals were so forgiving, unaware of faults, especially in their Divines.

"This is a temple for Oriana, Clay, made to honor her merciful grace," the man, assumingly the father, informs with a returned smile.

Zelophehad looks toward the mother who had deviated from the two, looking beyond at a carved statue, glistening in the pale sunlight. Her dirty hands are clasped together behind her back as she speaks in a pleading whisper, "Great Goddess Oriana, we wish no to bring violence as others have to this land. We only ask you for your gracious blessing…reassurance that our beloved son will make it through this tragedy. He is weak from sickness from this horrible war. Please…" her voice chokes with sadness, "Please…show his soul mercy."

The Creating God closes his eyes. He knew what would come next.

A warm light emerges, heating the back of his robes. He turns, meeting Oriana's kind, brown eyes. Her stature is that of her usual simplicity, her dress a pure white, little bits of gold embroidered in her dark hair and jewelry. The radiance she imbues is that of heat, the intensity similar to a gentle sunray. She asks with a voice contrastingly gentle to the roughness around her, "Zelophehad…what are you doing here?"

Instead of answering, he asks his own question, "Are you here to fulfill their prayers?" It sounds far more critical than he wants.

The Compassionate Goddess catches on immediately, her expression changing to that of stubbornness, "I cannot just ignore such a desperate plea, brother."

"But this war has yet to end, or even have a _sign_ of resting—"

"Zelophehad…" Oriana closes her eyes, an exhausted breath escaping her. In it the cruelness and violence of the war washes into the air and out of sight. So tolerant, the Creating God thinks, as she reopens her soft eyes, "I can't continue to watch them suffer."

He pierces his lips, wishing, searching for any universal reality where he could possibly comfort her. To tell her that this won't keep going. But, the discovery, he knew, would not come. He says quietly, "And you can't save every life that begs for salvation."

" _I know."_ There is a sharp incline in her voice before she turns away, a hand gripping her opposite arm, her pale fingers playing with the open sleeves of her dress. The Creating God knows she is repressing, forcing angry words down her throat. She struggles with it every day. Now more than ever. She looks back at him, "But…they need this, Zelophehad. They need to know we are still here for them; that we…at least _I_ care about them."

The brother's eyes wonder to the floor. He knows he cannot sympathize with the mortals like Oriana can. He cares for them like he cares for a building or mass of land. Destroying the beauty would anger him, but he could create it again.

Yet, he understood Oriana's connection to mortal kind. She is the great tie that pulls them together. She feels for them like no one else can or will be obliged to do.

After a long silence, Zelophehad steps away, signaling Oriana to pass. His sister looks at him, nodding once before moving to kneel by the child, Clay. The boy seems to shift.

"Dad…" he says, "I think I feel her…"

The father seems almost shocked. He is a young man, early in his twenties. His blue eyes are bright as he moves closer. His wife takes his arm, holding it tight against her breast.

"Have our prayers been answered so quickly?" She asks with endless hope in her tired voice.

Oriana reaches out, a soft glow emanating from her fingers. She speaks quietly, "In one day's time your strength will return, my child." She stands, moving away as the parents near their son, embracing in the dying warmth of Oriana's presence. She looks toward Zelophehad, "We should leave this place now."

The Creating God is definitely not going to disagree. He waves a hand, a portal emerging from the musty air.

"I know you don't agree with what I did, brother," She points out, "But I know you understand _why_ I did it."

Zelophehad watches the glowing vortex, "Or course I understand." He says, stepping through the threshold.

When he emerges on the other side he is on the outside of a monumental crystalline fortress. The reflective shards of glass-like spikes pierce the sun's rays and stab through the clouds. It is as aesthetically pleasing as it is structurally illogical. The palace is that of a changing landscape. Zelophehad found it hard to keep one concept in mind, especially with so many opinionated minds that resided in the place. He settled for a building that changed and morphed when it wanted, free from fault because it never stays the same long enough.

However, as he watches his home he feels something dreadfully off kilter from the usual aura of peace and solitude. A disturbance.

"Brother…one of the exiled have entered here," Oriana says, rushing past him, "But I'm sure you knew that."

Zelophehad hurries after her, climbing up the colorful, mirror stairs. The sunlight struck them in a variety of pastels that screamed Kyriakos. This is something that would come from his wondering mind. Then again, his mind is wandering now, away from the problem at hand.

He focuses away from the structure, thinking of who would possible break their line of exile before the established meeting that all the Gods were to share about the growing war. He thinks first of his brother Xerxes or one of his loyal, Aiday that would not hesitate if they themselves found it important. He has had several run-ins with the God of Destruction, but now he is not in any mood to argue. He already had to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable meeting, where he had to deal with all of the exiled together in one room.

"Kyriakos!" Oriana's voice breaks his thoughts away. He looks up, realizing they are deep in the inner halls or the palace, close to the center courtyard.

Kyriakos, God of Artistry, is leaning heavily against one of the glass pillars, clearly having been waiting. Zelophehad is slightly surprised by his patience that he normally doesn't have. Then again, he is looking particularly serious. His eyes, normally always changing color, were settled on a black onyx. The common elegance and grace that he carries is wound up, tense pressure in his dark muscles. His gaze rests on Zelophehad, his sing-song now grim, "I'm sure you already know about the invasion we are experiencing. Although it is in the form of someone you wouldn't expect."

"Who has come here?" Oriana asks before Zelophehad could speak.

"That of Judgment," He answers, glancing back toward the way of the courtyard, "Cadeyrn."

"Cadeyrn?" Oriana repeats, frowning, "That _is_ someone I wouldn't expect…"

"Always expect the unexpected with them," Zelophehad says, "And why are you not confronting him?"

"I don't like confrontation, brother," Kyriakos says as he always has, despite it being a dead lie, "Besides, Adina beat me to it."

"Oh dear…" Oriana sighs, looking at Zelophehad, "We better stop this before that girl starts something."

"I'll go. Stay here," Zelophehad orders before darting into the inner courtyard despite protest from his sister.

The inner courtyard is the one area of the palace that remains stable. It is a circular room, dedicated to the great breath of life and creation. Trees of all sizes and origins, flowers, herbs, and ferns grow on the fertile ground. It is usual a place for tranquil wandering, but now it is disrupted by heated debate.

He follows the string of creative language to a break in the foliage. Adina, daggers drawn and aimed at the figure before her, just finishes speaking when she sees Zelophehad. She is the youngest of the Gods, dressed in light trousers and shirt seeming as if taken from some mortal shop. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, her eyes fiery. She speaks fervently, "Brother, I just—"

"I heard you from across the plain, Adina," He interrupts, "You need not spill your tongue again lest you scare the plants to death."

The Goddess of Will scowls, "Is this really the time to joke?"

"Is this really the time to argue?"

Adina huffs in response, pointing a dagger at the figure grinning by her, "I found him walking among this place like it was his own. Kyriakos left to inform you but I stayed here. I didn't want to take my eyes of him."

Zelophehad turns his attention to Cadeyrn. He stands idly in the gentle grass. The broad, armored mass of his presence weighing heavily on the soulful place. He is armed with his crimson and black battle axe the emanated power and authority with a far more vicious appeal than that or Zelophehad. His grin is never-ending, yet somehow did not radiate with sarcastic condescension, it is genuinely friendly in appearance. He bows politely to the Creating God, speaking eloquently, "Great creator, Zelophehad. I'm pleased to meet you again after such a long exile. I apologize for the abrupt visit. Although the words or our Willful Goddess already hurt my heart."

"A heart that is nonexistent," Adina spits, glaring with crossed arms.

"Adina, please, leave us."

"But—"

Zelophehad gives her one glance in which she sighs, taking leave hastily. In her exit is a long silence, the wind crossing the leaves, howling in dark foreboding.

"Speak of your purpose here," The Creating God speaks first, "As you are clearly aware you are breaking your exile."

"Exile is such a cruel word. As you have done no such thing to me, only to your natural brother," Cadeyrn says, "Others simply followed."

"Including you. And those that will ally themselves with destruction are not welcome in this realm," There is a distant pain in Zelophehad's core as he says this, a longing for friendship in all ideals.

The God of Judgment considers this, his grin falling just slightly, "Great Creator. I've come to challenge you to a duel. God against God. I wish to know of your power."

"You should already be aware," Zelophehad narrows his eyes, "I don't have time for such a challenge."

"Unless you do so, you will never know my true purpose here," Cadeyrn smiles gently, "Besides. It will be fun."

"Fun…" The Creating God repeats slowly.

"Yes. I'm saddened by how foreign the word is to you, brother," Cadeyrn pulls the two-handed axe from his back, "Do you oblige to my request?"

Zelophehad watches him in his stance, feeling a wave of great purpose. He nods once, confirming his agreement.

"I knew you would," The God of Judgment smiles, "But make this fair. I lack your skill in creation. Limit to one hand. The other your best weapon."

"How odd I must handicap myself," Zelophehad hears himself say with ease. He holds out an empty hand, summoning katana, slender and sturdy. With his other he snaps his fingers, the plant life instantly dissipating to form an open plain, "But if I must."

The Battle God laughs; a hearty, booming one that practically summoned thunder, "Is your blood as silver as your tongue?"

The creating God lashes back with a steel-laced voice, "You won't see any to find out."

A resounding clang of metal on metal sounds disharmoniously throughout the ring as the two Divines clash with very different styles. Zelophehad's movements are as effortless as the wind, his evasions like a breeze and his attacks like hurricanes. Cadeyrn shakes the very ground he steps upon, but possesses skills in battle that surpassed nearly all he faced. He is relentless; a being that can tear through enemies like a wildfire could tear through trees. In all the Creating God's grace, he only fans the flames, inciting more and more intensity from his opponent's attacks.

Despite choosing to fight as mortals, in an arena with weapons and limits, they did not feel pain like they did. When Cadeyrn's axe collides with Zelophehad's back, it does not pierce the skin and shatter the spine like it would a human. The impact only steals his balance, knocking him to the floor and sapping some needed energy. When Zelophehad stabs his blade through Cadeyrn's chest in retaliation, it does not stop the vital functions of his being. The action only stalls his opponent, granting him time to return to his feet and pull the blade out through the other's back. Divine combat isn't of fatality, it's of endurance.

"I expected more from you, Zelophehad," Cadeyrn calls between attacks, "You lack what your brother has in combat."

"Mindlessness, perhaps?" the Creating God keeps bitterness out of his tone, turning light into arrows with a wave of his hand, launching them at his opponent, "Maybe reason?"

His opponent disappears in a wave of fire, appearing at the other end of the arena with only a single arrow piercing him, "Even your insults are devoid of it! There is no poison in your speech, Creator, no purpose in your fight!" he pulls the arrow from his shoulder, pointing its bloodied end accusingly at the other Divine, "You have no passion."

"You attempt to distract my thoughts, Battle King, and for what cause?"

"It only makes my judgment easier."

"Do you judge my combat or my being?"

"If I told you, you'd change to suit my favor."

"Your favor is worthless to me."

"Yet, you battle for answers."

There's a visual tightening in Zelophehad's muscles, a grinding of teeth. This invader dares to play games, ones that are no doubt were for the amusement of Xerxes. The creating God sets his jaw and snaps his fingers, a storm the strength of a tempest developing around them. Perhaps he is playing into the other God's hands, but he didn't care, he wishes a silenced tongue from the Battle King.

Every strike Zelophehad makes is imbued with lightning, fueled by foreign anger. Cadeyrn returns the favor with fierce counters, his flame intense even amongst the torrent. He smiles; grins from ear to ear, a gesture only furthering the opposing Divine's frustration.

"Where was this before?" Cadeyrn is yelling over the whirlwind, "Did I really strike a nerve, Creator?"

The words Zelophehad speaks are with a raised voice, so rarely used by him, "You dare to challenge me, brother? Dare to judge me by your own merits?" mountains rose and wind howled with his tone, "I wish for your silence when I defeat you, until you return to my brother with loss."

"Even with your anger I am not convinced of your ideals. You're reluctant to smite defilers, sinners of the world you created. You don't even wish me dead." The Battle King brings his axe down on the Creator's head, which his opponent narrowly blocks, locking them in a test of strength, each pushing against the other, "where is your passion? What fuels your imaginary cause that severed the ties between you and your brother?"

There's a strength he feels, a stinging in his hands as he violently shoves his opponent back. He raises his hand, so prepared to destroy him. Yet, he does not. He watches the Divine before him with an increasingly softened gaze before he lowers his hand, the tempest resting, "Life."

A genuinely confused expression passes Cadeyrn's face at the anger that so rapidly diminished, "…What?"

"You asked me where my passions lie, Cadeyrn." Zelophehad spoke with a more stable tone, the wind settling among them, "I tell you they lie in life, in creation itself. Xerxes can never understand that. Passion in death is no passion at all. I will stand by my creations and protect them from my brother, even if it pains me to separate for such a petty cause."

"Those are my ideals, Battle King." The Creating God allows the sword to disappear in his hand, "Go tell my brother that I stayed my hand; that I refused to fight. Feel free to lace it with insult and smugness. I don't need his approval and I don't need yours. I just want this to _end."_

Cadeyrn, whose face had relaxed in thought, sneaks a small smile. It was a genuine one, more natural than the frayed, broken one of a blood thirsty soldier, "You surprise me."

He rises, the movement stiffening Zelophehad's muscles. But the Battle King raises a hand, returning his axe to his back. His eyes meet his, "Xerxes fooled me to think you a disillusioned man, lost among the stars you were born from. But in reality, I haven't seen a more noble being."

The Creating God stares, dumbfounded by the sudden, abrupt change of heart. Then again, it is not a change, just a different perspective. Cadeyrn said from the very beginning he was being tested.

"Did I earn an answer for your presence here?" He asks slowly, keeping a steadiness in his voice.

The God of judgment looks at him, nodding simply, "The duel was a test."

"That has become clear. A test for what?"

Cadeyrn's gaze suddenly grows dark, his eyes narrow as if to emphasize the importance, "To see if you were worth saving."

"What…?" Zelophehad speaks, frown deepening at his tone.

"Your brother plans to lead a full assault against you and all of mortal kind," Cadeyrn continues, matching the other God's frown, "He believes that the best way to end the war is total eradication of the humans. Nothing will get in his way. Not even you."

Zelophehad steps back, the revelation inflicting more pain and exhaustion than any blow Cadeyrn landed in their fight. Xerxes, his own brother, so far their relationship has eroded that he wishes to war against him? A part of him should not be surprised. However, he could not find that part, he could only discover vicious sadness and regret.

"I cannot believe this…" He speaks quietly, "Xerxes…"

"I know you care for him. Somewhere deep inside you still have your brother. But I've passed my judgment on him long ago. He isn't worth the effort, Zelophehad," Cadeyrn says gently, gazing up at the cosmic sky revealed by the open ceiling.

"What do you suggest? Kill him? We would destroy everything if we dare drawn blades against one another."

"I never said kill him, although that would be a battle to see," Cadeyrn allows a small smile before returning to his frown. "But now I think it is time to mention that what I've done here had probably not gone undetected."

Before Zelophehad could question the comment, the bright rift of a portal tears through the ruined plain. Out of it steps the very man that plagued the conversation. The man, so similar in appearance to Zelophehad, but riddled with blackened skin spiked with scales, horns curving through entangled, dark hair. Then again, the Creating God barely registers these features before they are wiped away, pulling into mortal flesh until all he sees is the brother he saw so long ago leave him behind.

"Xerxes…we were just talking about you," Cadeyrn speaks first, somehow maintaining a sunny disposition, though it's corrupted by thinly veiled bitterness.

"Were you now? I expected to be walking into a bloody conflict, with little talking of any sort." He side glances at Cadeyrn, shaking his head, "You disappoint me."

"Your favor is worthless to me." The battling God responds, purposefully quoting Zelophehad's previous words.

"That's certainly a different view then you had before, dedicated to my cause as you were." He turns away, locking eyes with his brother, "Do you corrupt him now too, brother? Do you try and pull him to your side with such feigned nobility?"

Zelophehad returns a narrowed gaze at him, "If anyone deals with corruption, it's you. I hear you attempt to march on my home for some petty act of revenge."

Xerxes's jaw sets, eyes sparking with angered surprise. He shoots a glance at Cadeyrn, who keeps a stony expression in return, no sign of regret in his decision. The fire lessens as quickly as it lite in the Destructive God's eyes, a cold smile coming to his face to replace it, " _Well,_ this is rather awkward, isn't it?"

"You dare act so casual?" Zelophehad speaks, although knowing full and well it is always how his brother addresses conflict, "You so willingly conspire against your own blood and you treat it like a playful joke?"

"Zelophehad…" Xerxes laughs out his name, quiet, almost belittling as he sets a hand on his shoulder, "You take things so seriously."

The Creating God scoffs, smacking his brother's hand away, stepping away as if the closeness was like poison, "You are despicable."

"In what way, exactly?" Xerxes questions, his cold smile growing more amused by the millisecond, "Because I wish to purify mortals? That of which you and your company have so wretchedly polluted, mind you; with you broken ideals and misdirected humanity."

" _We_ are those who polluted them?" Zelophehad speaks, his voice baffled, "Says the man with _his_ company. Those who struck fear and malice and desire into people that were so kind and just."

"That's because mortals should fear us! They should quake at the very _idea_ of our wrath upon them should they misbehave. Yet here they are, warring against one another to no fault of our own. If they were subordinate we would not have this unruly destruction!" The heat of his words is brutal, ferocious in performance but his expression and tone slowly sooth as he continues, "I only wish to eradicate what has toppled our creation…brother," The last utterance of the name is surprisingly soft, spoken as a sibling.

Zelophehad stares, lost in the speech, in the last hour in general. He can find truth in his brother's claim. It is something he could not find the strength or shame to admit. He thinks of Oriana, of her connection to the mortals, as well as Kyriakos and Adina's. He couldn't take that away, he can't just break that tie, severe that cord.

He turns away from his brother, eyes trained at the ground, "We are having a meeting."

Cadeyrn speaks first, "The one in two moons?"

"No. No…we have it now."

"What?" Xerxes asks quietly, studying his brother's expression, but Zelophehad refuses to show him any weakness.

"Gather your company, Xerxes," the Creating God commands, his voice steely, "We end this now."

**~888~**

In the two hours that follow Zelophehad watches the palace change from a crystal sculpture into a reinforced, marble and granite castle. He had almost no control over the creation's changes, but it seemed to match the mood. He does not know how this will go, but he hopes it does not end in a war of Gods and Goddesses. That would simply fulfill his brother's plan in a much shorter time span. He needs to keep the peace, to think of some plan.

He has failed in that endeavor so far.

"I can sense your tension from across the castle." Zelophehad looks over at Kyriakos, seeming to appear from nowhere as he commonly does. His eyes are an icy blue.

"Odd choice of color today," Zelophehad says with little effort to keep the already addressed tension from his tone.

"I like blue," Kyriakos answers, "I'm not trying to please the masses, or the presence of stress. I just like the color."

"Are you trying to veil some inner meaning?"

"Of course. Art does it all the time, why can't I?"

"This is hardly the time—"

"It is never the time with you, brother," The God of Artistry looks peacefully out the window, "I trust you to make a decision that will save this world."

"I'm so glad you would like to lessen the pressure," Zelophehad says, morbidly sarcastic.

"But it is good," He says gently, "We will support you."

The Creating God looks toward his artistic brother, nodding once, "Thank you."

Kyriakos nods back, walking ahead toward the meeting room, "If all else fails, try thinking outside your little box."

"I don't bear your creativity, Kyriakos."

"If you are poor at anything, it would be lying," The Art God smirks, vanishing into the dreaded room. Zelophehad takes a moment to breath, relaxing the stiff tension in his muscles and mind. He follows his companion into the massive, domed area. The others were already seated, easily separated by their loyalties and glaring at their opposites. This is an exception to Cadeyrn, who bears neutral appeal, and Oriana, who restrains herself from malice, but her eyes still contain steely displeasure at Kali, Goddess of Fear.

Kali leans lazily on her carved chair, her black eyes soulless and frightful to any mortal. She glares back at the Compassionate Goddess with fire in her eyes and cruelty on her lips.

Adina's eyes are the most intense, scowling toward Aiday, Goddess of Manipulation who contrasted with a smirk more venomous then any snake's fangs. Neither of them were winning the mental battle, nor are either of them losing.

All the stress that had dissipated before entering the meeting returned to Zelophehad with full force.

Standing in the center of all eyes is Xerxes, who addresses his brother with a simple nod, "We are gathered as you requested, brother. I assume you want to make this quick."

He does, though, with no plan in mind he didn't know if he could accomplish that. He goes down the stairs sinking the circular expanse, speaking, "Yes. I prefer compromise over bloodshed."

"Lovely," Lysandros, God of Dark Indulgences, sighs, stretching like a bored feline at his spot, looking up at the ceiling, "I'd rather not get in a battle of artistry with my brother."

"Yes. I would win far too quickly for your liking." Kyriakos counters with a grin, leaving Lysandros to roll his eyes, bitterness lying in them.

Zelophehad shoots a glare at them both, "Don't start anything. Tensions are already high, I'd rather not spark any unnecessary conflict, such like the war that rages amongst mortal kind."

"And whose fault is that?" Aiday comments, standing and gliding with slender grace to Lysandros, her voice like fine silk, "You claim to be so protective of your creations, yet they fight like dogs over petty squabbles, for power and will."

"If they feared our wrath, they'd know to keep the peace." Kali adds, "But instead you and your followers insist on allowing them to roam freely."

Adina answers before Zelophehad can even think to respond, "Fearful subjects are no subjects at all, _sister_." She hisses the name like it pained her to say it, "Mortals should be allowed the harmony of free thought."

"We're not saying they can't be _free_. No, not at _all."_ Lysandros sits up a bit, pulling Aiday close so she practically sits on his lap, "They just have too much logic, sister, and too much awareness of their moral compasses. If they must remain, make them think like the animals they are."

"Like you? An animal too vapid and lonely to keep someone out of their bed for a night." Oriana suddenly snaps in return, voice tight with restraint but eyes bright with annoyance, "Do you think yourself a powerful being, hopping from partner to partner with such ease?"

Lysandros simply smiles, "You would like to know, wouldn't you?"

A noise of disgust escapes the Compassionate Goddess, muttering something under her breath. Something amusing, it seemed, as Kyriakos let out a breathless laugh upon hearing it. An argument begins to develop between the remaining Divines. Zelophehad opens his mouth to interrupt, but Xerxes beats him to it.

"Enough." He states with a raised but controlled voice. He glances at Lysandros with a lazy gaze, as if it were a chore to redirect him, "Lysandros, do try to keep your desires to yourself for now. I'd hate for you to waste them."

"Anything for you, Xerxes." The Indulgent God nods to him with a gaze that could be translated in several ways. He gently pushes Aiday off, straightening in his seat. Adina mutters something to Kyriakos, who looks to be battling the urge to laugh out loud, resulting in glares from the darker occupants of the room.

"You're acting like _children."_ Zelophehad's authoritative tone draws the attention of all the Divines, "We are not going to waste this time on insignificant annoyances with each other."

"As hard as that may be for _some_ of us." Adina speaks all too loudly, a side glace from Zelophehad silencing her reluctantly.

The Creating God continues when everyone becomes silent, closing his eyes and stretching a heavy sigh, "…This war was the fault of all of us, no matter how much we wish to deny it. Mortals are a culmination of us all, creatures created in our image."

"Which is _exactly_ why we should wipe the slate clean, brother." Xerxes comments, standing beside him, turning and addressing the others, "It is the fault of all of us that these humans think themselves more powerful than us. Some ideals outweigh others, but that doesn't matter."

"We can start again, redefine them, create all new subjects." The Destroying God turns back to his Zelophehad, a softness in his eyes, his voice lowering so only he can hear, "We can do so _together."_

_Together._ The word is so foreign now, so poisoned by false sincerity. Zelophehad glances at Cadeyrn, who has remained silent throughout the proceedings so far. His eyes are dark, a wisdom hidden behind neutrality. He slightly shakes his head, the movement so deft it is barely noticeable.

Zelophehad returns his attention to Xerxes, "Due to recent events, I don't have much trust that you will compromise, nor your ability to listen to reason." It hurt him to speak in such a way to his true blood brother, but then again, it hurt knowing how many lives are lost everyday more.

Xerxes looks hurt for a moment. His brother looks at him steadily, not falling for his tricks. In response to his steely expression, the fellow God smiles, "Oh, brother, you _do_ grow up fast." His voice is like needles, pricking at his skin, "So, great _creator_ , what is your plan? What do _you_ suppose we should do? Something needs to be done, and I'm dying to know your ideas."

The Creating God wants to say he does, wants to say he has everything worked out. But that would be a lie, one that everyone would see from miles away no matter how well he tried to hide it.

When he remains silent, Xerxes's smile grows ever so subtlety, "You are clueless. Of course, as you always are." He steps back, spreading his arms, "You haven't changed as much as I thought. Still in need of my help to set plans into motion."

"I won't let you destroy them, not while I still live." Zelophehad feels his anger and frustration rise, a sharp wind whipping past the rounded room.

Aiday's hair whips up in when the gale passes, glancing back at Zelophehad with a smirk, "That can change, couldn't it…?"

Oriana stands upright, "You dare to threaten him?"

"I do, in fact. And I'll do it again." Aiday stands as well, her smirk growing, "I didn't know such a vacant, incessant little shrew thought so fondly of him."

"Incessant little- oh you two-faced, betraying-"Adina can barely finish her insult, too baffled by the whole thing. She glares, taking out duel daggers and launching across the table.

The result clash of metal echoes throughout the room. Aiday stood now, eyes locked with Adina's, her own silver rapier blocking the two daggers. She smiles coldly at the other Divine, "Or you'll do."

There's a resounding crack, like stone being crushed to dust. The Divines turn to the sound, Cadeyrn being its source. He has stabbed his great axe into the marble floor, several large fissures being produced from its end. He stands, pushing his weight up with a hand still grasping the handle of the weapon. Zelophehad nods a silent thanks to him, which he returns with equal volume.

Xerxes laughs bitterly as the two Goddesses reluctantly move away, "This just proves my point. We cannot coexist well together, so the motley of man has an even worse chance."

"Kali openly threatened Zelophehad, brother, and insulted Adina." Kyriakos comments from the back, arms crossed, "That hardly proves anything."

"It proves that willfulness can be a dangerous thing, and humans shouldn't possess it or any free-thought!" Xerxes asserts, turning back to Zelophehad, "We only need to purify the world, not save its broken people."

The Creating God thinks deeply, closing his eyes, arguments blooming in the silence. Perhaps there is some truth to what Xerxes says. They never worked so well together; Divines of such opposite worlds couldn't possibly come to agreement. There was peace when they were separated, pulled away to settle their own affairs.

_If we can't coexist together, the humans have it worse._

_Separation…_

"Silence." Zelophehad commands with a sudden, darkly steeled voice. The room quiets, some occupants more reluctant then others. Xerxes turns back to him, some trace of a smirk on his face.

"Does the great creator have a plan?" Lysandros comments lazily from his relaxed position, "For we wait with bated breath."

"You speak with amusement, yet my word is above all others." Zelophehad speaks calmly, effectively shutting Lysandros down and addressing the remaining Divines, "My brother is right. If we cannot settle out own prejudice amongst ourselves, then we cannot expect mortals to do any better."

Oriana interrupts suddenly, "Brother, you can't-"

"Finally, you speak sense brother!" Xerxes smiles, a broad, confident one, "So you made a decision?"

"I have." Zelophehad nods, keeping his eyes on his brother despite his voice reaching the others and keeping a steady pacing, "By my command we will end the desires for war by separating them completely. There will be two worlds, one for those who relish the light and another for those who hide from it. One above, one below."

"No creature of the moon will dare cross the border of worlds without reason, nor any creature of the sun. Each world will live by its own law." He stops his pace, standing before Xerxes, "And…for the betterment and solidification of this decree, we shall give ourselves to its creation, so that no Divine may intervene!"

A silence follows, so complete that even the wind seemed to make a slight sound. Xerxes stared back at his brother, eyes finally narrowing, "You must jest-"

"I'm not a joking being, Xerxes. You know that." Zelophehad interrupts him before he truly begins. He is tired; _exhausted_ from the fighting. He wants to so badly to rest, to make peace with himself and the world. Perhaps his decision is for his own selfish need for sleep, but he knew he is not the only one who has that desire.

"Your mind must be fading from this conflict." Xerxes's voice is hard, speech through his teeth, "We cannot just _give ourselves_ to this creation of yours. Do you suggest an impossible task?"

Zelophehad continues without a moment's pause, "I know well the rules of life. I know well that none of us can truly pass on. So we shall banish our spirits, infuse them with the souls of choice mortals. If the time comes where we are awakened, then we shall return, but our slumber will be long enough for the worlds to be thriving."

"You're mad!" Kali growls, standing once again, "You would force us to give our own control to save _mortals?_ Have you lost all sense of significance?"

"Zelophehad, I don't particularly agree with your line of thinking either." Oriana speaks with a softer voice, "I hate to associate myself with their reasoning, but the mortals need someone to guide them."

"Our guidance has done nothing but led them astray." The creating God responds to them both shortly.

"And you have such faith in mortals that you really believe they will be able to handle things on their own?" Lysandros smirks lightly, "Seems so irresponsible, so chaotic…I like it."

"What?" Aiday looks at him in shock, "You _agree_ with this fool's plan?"

"Sure. Sounds hilarious," The Indulgent God's smirk rises to a grin, "I could use a nice, long nap. Mortals simply aren't as entertaining when they are busy fighting one another."

His claim makes his dark associates actually consider. Xerxes remains expressionless, staring at the cracked, marble floor.

Adina speaks up next, "I'll do it. I'll do it to end this. It is the only option. We choose this or we choose war. If I must give up my being to keep free will, I agree." She looks at Zelophehad, nodding once in finality.

"I know my word means little by my neutrality," Cadeyrn speaks, his voice a calm, booming melody, "But this plan is, by my judgment, the best we can do. Honestly, I am sick of all of you."

Aiday huffs, muttering under her breath, "Yes…at least that we can agree with."

Zelophehad scans the room at the changing expressions. He turns to Xerxes, "Brother…"

The Destructive God locks eyes with him, expression still unreadable. He motions several times to speak by fails. Eventually he simply gives a certain stare, his eyes light and final. He is agreeing. Zelophehad knew this much as true.

"It is settled," The Creating God speaks loud, stepping back, "Sound to your followers, your loyals and your temples. In one, final cycle of day and night…we will divide this world forever."

**~888~**

By the Creating God's commanding words, a vicious fault erupts from the earth, tearing through precious soil. Hills and valleys, mountains and fields crack and crumble as the world begins its indefinite change. The sky comes crashing down, imbued with cosmic, divine light. The warring mortals, lost in the orders of their priests, pray to the parting heavens, feeling forsaken while others stand in confidence in their human eyes.

Zelophehad watches it all unfold, his brother by his side in his creation. The palace roof is where they stand, the image of their efforts burned into the starry sky.

"Your expression speaks volumes, Zelophehad," he comments, "And they do not bode well."

"Like it matters to you," The Creating God scoffs, "You were perfectly fine killing them all."

"I still am. Though there is no convincing you of true logic," Xerxes looks to him, his face soft, "It is done. That is all."

"Then you know what is next."

"Yes. Sleep," Xerxes laughs. It is bitter, bearing none of his usual cockiness, "So simple yet so painful to think about as of late."

"It will be good…" Zelophehad says, but can't keep doubt from his words.

"Then this is goodbye, until our descendants walk this split land again," Xerxes turns his back on him, a portal opening from the air.

Zelophehad watches him, speaking quickly, "Brother…"

Xerxes stops his moment, but does not turn back, waiting.

"This was not your vision. You missed me as much as my heart tore itself apart with the same feeling. You wanted different. You tried to conform me to your ideals yet…part of me thinks you knew you'd fail. Regardless…you must promise me that when our souls so break new dawn…that you will not pursue, you won't seek revenge. Please…for the good of every divine and mortal being."

The Destructive God turns his head, looking at his brother with a broken face, cracked by bitterness and some odd sense of sympathy. He looks back, stepping through the portal, leaving Zelophehad with not a single word.

The Creating God stares where the portal vanishes, a coldness washing through his blood. The emptiness of the last exchange freezing his veins.

"It was a heavy promise to make."

Zelophehad turns, the voice belonging to Cadeyrn. Behind him lie the others loyal to the light. Oriana is frowning, her hands clasped tight as she watches him. Kyriakos is looking out at the skies, his mind wandering while Adina remains motionless, and her eyes hard.

"I thought he could at least…say no," Zelophehad says quietly.

"Destruction is a chaotic thing," Cadeyrn says, "You cannot expect anything. It will do the opposite."

The Creating God's eyes turn toward the sky, the image of his divide already faded back to the crystal lattice of stars. Kyriakos steps to the edge, looking across his companions, "I don't know about you all, but I'm ready to sleep."

"You are able to choose your destined reincarnation…be it who you will."

"Oh, I've already spanned the choices…as vague as they are at such an early time."

"Care to share your findings?"

Kyriakos only smiles. He looks toward Cadeyrn, then back, "I decided to be a bit creative. Out of my comfortable line of thinking as it may seem. Nothing any of you would approve of, of course."

Zelophehad can't help but smile. It is a sad one, laced with regret. How could he do this to them?

The Artistic God seems to sense his leader's despair, giving him a gentle smile, "We will meet again, my brother, the great Creator. This is not a final goodbye." He steps closer to the edge, his heels touching open space. With one final look at the occupants of the roof he closes his eyes.

The others watch as he steps straight off the balcony, wind rushing forth as his body dissipates, a wave of gentle notes and soft pastel light leak into the open air, spreading into nothingness.

"Well—"Zelophehad begins after a silence, but it is interrupted. Adina rushes past him, catapulting off the edge with full force, he eyes squeezed tight. She is gone before the others can even register it, exploding into sparks and dust.

Again, silence.

Oriana steps to the edge, "I can't imagine sleeping at a time like this…" She speaks weakly, "But I will…I will force myself to for the greater good."

Zelophehad moves beside her, wind blowing against their clothes. He speaks to her with as much comfort as he can muster, "It will be over before you even realize, Oriana."

The Compassionate Goddess looks at him, smiling at his attempt at gentleness. She lets out a small laugh, "I suppose I can go with that line of thinking."

"Go with whatever you desire," He says, "You can choose your mortal form…you can decide who deserves your ideals."

"I…I did have someone. She…hopefully she will share wisdom and kindness as I have tried to."

"She will." Cadeyrn speaks this, moving to the edge near them, looking down at the sleeping fall with a thoughtful look, "Kyriakos stole my idea, as many artists tend to do."

"Artistry is a chaotic thing," Zelophehad mimics with a smile, "You can't expect anything from it."

Cadeyrn lets out a hearty laugh, "Cute. But I will be victorious in my creativity as well. And may you all fear my arrival when judgment is reborn."

"I'll be waiting, quaking in my boots," Zelophehad jokes, the complacency of his new life beginning to calm him to no end.

A mischievous grin plays on the Battle King's face, "Farewell, until we meet again." He jumps, as does Oriana beside him. Zelophehad hesitates, watching embers and sunny rays fizzle out of sight. He has not yet chosen a suitable resurrection, so preoccupied by crafting the new world.

To the open air he speaks, "I'm done commanding everything. I'm done deciding…" He looks up at the very star that gave him life, "You…you that birthed me into this cursed divinity…you decide where my soul travels, craft my course as I have spent years crafting lands under your watch."

He closes his eyes, the very motion relaxing his very spirit. He walks off the edge, bathed warm light as he plummets downward. He draws further and further into caressing slumber, barely feeling his mortal form collapse and divide. Everything melts away, his past endeavors swimming among the heavens until they may be planted again.

Till the Divines rise again, until the severed ties of the world threaten to come together _._

_Only true Gods prevail._


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was at its dimmest when Zed finally pulls away from his monotonous work. 

He leans back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling with lazy eyes. The skylight above functioned as a clock, displaying the state of the sun. Most of the other factory workers had returned home by now. He distantly hears the voices of the remaining employees drifting away. The heavy iron door sluggishly swings shut, leaving him alone amongst shrapnel and fire.  
  
"I thought they'd never leave." Zed mutters to himself, pushing away from the table he had been sitting at for the majority of the day. The sleek metal skeleton of a crossbow lay unfinished at his work space. It was one of probably twenty that he had made on that day alone. Just thinking about making another reminded him how utterly boring the task is. Then again, he had reached his quota before anyone else, as is normal for him.  
  
Metalwork wasn't what bored him, not in the slightest. The weapons of Overworld simply lacked originality. Despite functioning in an optimal fashion, even having brilliant designs, they weren't very creative. They were tailored for mass production, not personalized to the individual. There was no style to be had, not advantage taken to the crafting materials. What a shame that they didn't take all the metal had to offer. Zed could practically make the conformed weapons with his eyes closed. He could do so much more.   
  
From beneath his workbench, he pulls free one of two lock boxes. Despite having many projects at home, the equipment he needed was in his workplace. At least, one specific project needed it.  
  
Many of his coworkers had commented on the boxes, but not for long. Zed was known for keeping to himself, almost religiously taciturn compared to the often riotous ramblings of the others. He rarely spoke of his work, if at all in general. Most dropped the subject when they were met with his silence. It had arose some pretty amusing rumors that the young man was a serial killer, hiding the remains of his victims in locked boxes.   
  
A single broadsword crafted of a strange metal rests at the bottom of one box. Its blade is dull but still finely crafted, its design unlike any other weapon in Overworld. For the most part being that it is made from rather demonic metal.

The material was a rare ore, one known not by name but by origin. It only existed deep within the fiery pits of Underworld, its fabrication unexplainable and its durability unbridled. However, its presence in Overworld is by no means legal, in his world or below. He had not obtained in any rightful way, but he hadn't stolen it either. He simply acquired it from other brave souls who dared to tread in the depths of the Underworld, maybe even helped smuggle it past the Mediators. The means at which he obtained it didn’t matter much, only that he had it. He needed a challenge.   
   
It didn't take long for him to learn how to meld the ore into what he wanted. He was a naturally gifted in such things, though he rarely acknowledged that fact. Working with metal came just as easy as working with anything else. Not that it really mattered. Overworlders had no need for unique weaponry; a reality that Zed unfortunately had to accept. He preoccupies himself with the fires of his craft, the obsidian substance mixed with silvery steel.   
  
Deep into his work, a spark in his hands startles him. It was a strange occurrence, one that seemed to present itself upon the approach of someone unfavorable. He quickly hides the weapon behind the table, glancing back at the iron entrance.  
  
"It's just me." Zed calls from across the room where he stood. He figured whoever entered was another worker who had forgotten something or an owner. They tended to come in from time to time, surprised by Zed's presence despite the lateness of the hour.  
  
Alternatively, however, a complete stranger enters the room. Needless to say he was a sight unfamiliar to Overworld, clad in black burned by multiple fires. Some heavy, well-worn armor hung on his shoulders, crafted from the very material Zed had been carefully working with himself.  
  
The stranger smiles, a friendly expression despite his intimidating appearance, "Hello."

Zed stares at him with silent confusion before responding, "Hello?"  
   
"Let me tell you, I've been busy," the stranger's voice rose, echoing within the empty factory, "I mean, it can get tiring sometimes, running back and forth and back and-"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" the metal worker interrupts without much regard for manners. The stranger's presence is unnerving despite his friendly demeanor.  
  
He frowns, bowing apologetically, "Sorry, I get off track sometimes. These confrontations blur together." he disappears in flame and shadow, reappearing just steps in front of him from the ground, "My name is Caliber. You’re last on my list."  
  
His closer position lead Zed quickly realizing just who the stranger was. Or, at least, _what_ he was. His eyes gave it away. The metal worker grips the edges of the table behind him to keep the shaking in his hands still.  
  
"I've never seen a Reaper before. I must be dead and not aware of it." Zed speaks coolly despite a tightness in his muscles, "Either that or you decided to start taking souls from the living."  
  
Caliber chuckles in a way that somehow conveyed both hardy amusement and underlying belittlement, "I take souls from the dead." he reaches out, producing a massive sword seemingly from fire and air alone, "I _punish_ the living."   
  
Zed forgets for a moment that a table sat behind him, as the Reaper's weapon was enough for him to attempt to step back. He had no idea how such a thing was even practical in use. Its mold and design had to require immense strength just to keep it off the ground. The fact that the man held the blade like it weighed nothing and seemed utterly confident in his abilities chilled the man more than his stance alone. Though the blacksmith in him felt the need to nag; the Reaper’s weapon is in desperate need of sharpening.   
  
His hand wraps around the handle of the sword behind the table, eyes steadily keeping track of the demon's movements, "What exactly are you punishing me for?"

"For stealing from Underworld." Caliber responds, swinging his sword up onto his shoulder, "An indestructible ore."

"I wasn't the only one." Zed is quick to defend himself, "I helped. I didn't enter Underworld."

Caliber grins, a scary thing, "As I said, you're _last_ on my list."

"You...killed all of them?" the metal worker had no personal connection to the actual thieves, but he certainly didn't wish them dead. There was a pit in his stomach none the less at the thought.   
  
The demon continues to smile, not waiting for a response, "I might think about maybe not killing you slowly and horrifically if you return what you stole. It wouldn't be as _fun_ but...you know, you wouldn't be able to say I don't have mercy."  
  
The creature's bravado was beginning to stir a foreign anger in Zed, "Oh, that's reassuring. How do you even know I'm the right man?"

"...Every one of the souls I reaped mentioned your name." he pauses, "Zed."

The blacksmith lets out a breath, one that he was sure portrayed his anxiety. Yet there was something beneath its surface: and underlying expression of anger. He wasn't going to die. No, not today.

"You say you want back what I stole, right?" Zed asks with hardness in his voice more potent than the steel he crafted with.

Caliber seems to acknowledge his change in tone, nodding curtly, "That is what I said."   
  
" _Well_ , I think I'll take you up on that kind, gracious offer. So here," he pulls free the broadsword from behind the table, "take it."

With one, swift motion, he slashes at the reaper in an upward arc, very close to knocking him off his feet. Zed was of no unusual strength, but the strange ore of the blade made up for it.

With fueled adrenaline he kicks the demon's char-armored chest. Caliber stumbles back, falling like a fallen tree into the crimson-imbued forge. Molten lava swishes in lazy waves as the demon vanishes into it.

Zed steps back, sweat already accumulating on his brow. Not from lack of energy, but more from what he managed to accomplish.  
  
A disturbance in the lava's calm swirling makes him step back. The surface breaks, the reaper emerging from beneath the burning bath. Steam rises from his armor, inflicted with new burns but otherwise undamaged. The demon raises his head as he balances on the edge of the vat, mortal face reconstructing with ease upon his emergence. He's smiling, grinning from ear to ear. His laughter echoes in the hallow factory.

"Oh, you’re _actually_ putting up a fight?" he speaks breathlessly, though it’s stability returns, "I’m going to enjoy taking your soul.”

Zed was in awe, but he hides it behind a steely voice, "If you think I’m letting you walk out of here with my soul, you’re wrong."

"Come on then!” he pulls his heavy weapon from the lave-like substance behind him, “Prove it!”  
  
Without a moment notice, he launches off the vat, training his sword at him. Zed jumps back, the demon's blade slamming into the ground. Cracks and dents carve into the floor on its impact; along with a vicious tremor that knocks the crafter off his feet.

He rolls quickly to the side, dodging another swing, scrambling upward on unbalanced feet. His mind and eyes immediately snap to defense. He turns his focus to that of the lock boxes he so carefully protected. Now, they were the only chance of protecting him.

A sudden heat makes him return his attention to the battle, met unexpectedly with a wave a fire. He sidesteps it, the very heat only grazing his arm and side. Yet, an intense pain still surfaces, as if the flame had been burning steel. His eyes dart to Caliber, whose empty hand wields fire curving along his bare fingers.

The Reaper takes no time to lunge forward upon the injury he inflicted. Zed raises his sword to block his opponent's. His succeeds in the action, but lacked the strength to counter such a large weapon. He locks the demon into a circulating clash of swords, all the while guiding his movements toward his workbench.  
  
“The ore is not the only thing that gives you a fighting chance,” Caliber quips with a small smirk, “You have unexpected skill.”

“You cannot craft nearly as well unless you know the weapon,” Zed says, although short of breath as he tries not to hint at his objective.

“I agree. Then again, your hands are shaking.” Zed doesn’t bother checking, he knew that was true. Instead, as soon as he's close enough, he sharply slides out of the conflict, diving beneath the table.

His hands _were_ shaking. Uncontrollably. He curses colorfully as if that would calm the action down. He tears into the lock box, snatching up what he seeks. Rolling on his back he raises it above his head just as the reaper's sword comes down through the table on his head.

Caliber steps back upon feeling instant backlash from his attack. Zed stands amongst the shattered remains of the table, a newly obtained shield in his sword less hand.  
  
"How much of the ore did you even get?" Caliber asks with genuine curiosity, an almost casual amount.

Zed, on the other hand, possessed tightened muscles and a breathless voice, "Enough."

"I can see that." he smiles again, "Don't disappoint."

"Oh, I won't." Zed mutters, raising his shield, "What are the chances of me being innocent in all this?"

Caliber's expression changes from amusement to stern determination, "About as high as your chances of surviving."

Zed manages to block the next oncoming attack. The burn on his arm made every impact with his shield rather painful, but he didn't care. He needed to survive.

The Reaper certainly didn't let up, inflicting a series of attacks with trained efficiency. The only thing that ever hindered him was his speed compared to Zed, who could dart around his swings like a fox around traps. Yet, the metal worker's attacks were light. He wasn't entirely sure how much damage he was doing when he landed a hit. The only acknowledgement he got was a short release of breath from the demon upon landing one.  
  
Their clash quickly made its way to the upper levels of the factory. Zed was beginning to grow tired, knowing his energy would run dry sooner or later. He backs onto a catwalk that stretched across the place, staggering back at another impact of his opponent's sword.

Caliber slowly advances as Zed backs up. The latter’s eyes glance down at the vat of liquefied metal below, then back to the reaper. His position wasn't the greatest. Caliber didn't have as much room to swing but Zed didn't have much room to dodge either. But he had a plan, one that required the demon to do what he thought he was going to do.

As he predicted, with little room to swing, Caliber goes for a powerful stab. Zed quickly blocks it, pushing the blade aside and taking the small opening to plunge his sword into the demon's leg.

There's a stream of curses that follows, the reaper falling to one knee involuntarily. Heart beating overwhelmingly fast, Zed tears his weapon free in hopes of sending him back with a final blow.  
  
The demon catches his wrist, his grip white hot like blazing coals. Zed's teeth grind at the pain, his only offense being ripped from his grasp and thrown off the side of the catwalk's railing. He hears it distantly hit the floor with a metallic clang.

"I think you dropped your sword." Caliber speaks through his teeth. There was a loathing his voice, even if he's smiling. He's quick to yank the shield from Zed's other arm, "Let me help you get it back." he speaks as though he's doing something positively saintly. He throws the metal worker over the edge toward the molten metal vat below.

Zed almost unconsciously grabs the railing, stopping his free fall before it begins. He reinforces his grip with his other hand, dangling with little energy left to pull himself up again.

Caliber kneels down, looking down at him, then the vat below, then him again, "Remember when you kicked me in there?" he asks, though his tone doesn't invite an answer.   
  
Zed gives him one regardless, "Yeah, I do. You looked less ugly with half your face melted off."

"I was born of fire, of course it can't kill me. You, on the other hand, burn." he presses a fiery hand against Zed's fingers, "Hope you can swim in metal as well as you can craft it."

He didn't fully process what the reaper was saying, only that he was about to die. At such a point he had nothing to lose. He resists the burning in his hands as long as necessary, using the last of his strength to pull himself upward. He grips the demon's collar, yanking over the railing with him just as he loses his hold on safety.

He might've been falling in slow motion, maybe not. It felt like time tried to drag on the moment. The crafter wished so desperately that water waited for him below. There's a twitching relaxation in his muscles as he waits for the fire.  
  
The burning never comes. He impacts not with white hot metal but with cool, crystal water.

Zed didn't know how long he was submerged before his eyes snap open. He didn't have the capacity to think freely; some other force pulled him toward the surface. He glances to the side, eyes falling on Caliber. The Reaper floated heavily beneath the surface, the water around him nearly boiling from his fiery presence.

_I was born of fire_ he had said just a moment ago. Born of fire that was extinguished by water. If he was submerged long enough, he would perhaps never recover from the scars it would leave.

Deftly, without thinking, Zed grips his attacker's arm, guiding him upward.

Air hissed into his throat as soon as his head broke the surface. He might have gasped, maybe breathing heavy, but everything seemed ebbed with numbness now. He throws Caliber over the edge, crawling out himself and landing roughly on the floor.  
  
The weightlessness he felt breaks away to crushing gravity. Pain and exhaustion all come crashing down at once, leaving him in a state of limbo where there was barely any feeling at all. His eyes closed, the darkness making whatever he tried to feel more distant.

There's a shuffling, then a quiet coughing. Zed opens his eyes, trying to register the sounds through some bizarre ringing in his ears. He sees Caliber struggling up, soaking wet and harboring an expression of confusion. The rivulets of water lifted seem from his skin like hot iron dipped in a trough. He stands, an action requiring more strength then Zed could even comprehend doing right now. There was a silence about him, one even a stranger could tell was uncharacteristic.

The demon looks down at him, “Why did you pull me out of the water?"

That was a question the metal worker didn't know the answer to. Why did he pull him from the water? The only thing the Reaper had done is tried to kill him, mercilessly. He could...he _should_ have just left him. But he didn't. He saved his life. At least, as much of one as he had. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself unable to.   
  
Caliber raises an eyebrow, then seems to realize, "You're out of it. I can see it in your eyes."

When Zed doesn't respond, he continues, "I can't kill you now. That wouldn't...feel as good as it usually does." he turns, "and something tells me I wouldn’t be able to if I tried.” He mutters his last comment, as if speaking to someone else entirely or himself. Then, in a dissension of blue hued fire and shadow, the reaper leaves.  

His departure takes some weight off Zed's chest. He was beginning to feel again, though he didn't enjoy the fatigue. There's a distant reverberation, an echoing in his ears. The sound of a heavy door swinging open. Chatter, whispers, calling of his name. Someone shook his shoulder, tried to speak through waves of interception. Everything was muted, lost like sound beneath the ocean.

The words he couldn’t speak sat silent on his lips, a question. _Why did I save him?_ The sound returned in his head, but the voice wasn't his own. It was rougher, laced with steel and solidified with authority:

_Because he saved me once,_ it spoke through the white noise, _you must rest. Sleep._

So the crafter closes his eyes, and he sleeps.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	3. Chapter 3

Caliber could only move a short distance with his teleportation abilities after being soaked to the skin with water. The idea that humans had to drink the cursed substance to even function is beyond him. Smoke rolls off his skin like an overworked machine as he comes to a stop on an incline from the industrial district’s edge.

He sits on the hill overlooking the city, the grass beneath him burning in small blue flame from his contact with it. A frustrated breath escapes him, closing his eyes and allowing the warmth of his fire sizzle away what remained of the water. Through the sound he hears soft humming, though, it is more like painful wailing to most people. His eyes open, some lingering souls of the recent dead hovering about him.

Souls are oblivious things without bodies to harbor them. When they are torn from their physical body, they wander like lost lambs, awaiting a Reaper to shepherd them to the demons below. Those demons nourished themselves with the souls of the living. He is one such Reaper, though he deviated from others of his kind in that he often pursued the tasks of the First Quarter; demons of the highest standing.

His dark eyes open again and watch the orbs of life float blindly and without direction. They bump into one another and faze through the long grass. With a wave of his hand, they cease their movement, culminating into a small group and disappearing within him upon his guidance. What remained of the lives he took them from fuels him, almost hastily healing his injuries and feeding his fire like nervous coals. They had been from a few guards he dispatched on his way out. Apparently the noise of his battle had attracted the attention of other late day workers. They were easy enough to take out. Far unlike the man he let live.

Sometimes he doesn’t know why he makes the decisions he does. He had every reason in the universe to drive his sword through that human’s chest, but he didn’t. He could have too. Easily. Yet it didn’t work out that way in his head then and it still didn’t now. The ravenous need for the death of his opponent extinguished like his flame when he hit the water, only furthering to ashes when he was pulled from it.

It isn’t as if he hadn’t been submerged before; it is a commonly known weakness amongst Overworlders. However, the water he hit seemed to sting so much more, perhaps from not bracing himself properly. One minute it had been harmless molten metal, next a demon’s death trap. The occurrence had been so instantaneous, so utterly unnatural and ridiculous that it couldn’t have been just a random act of chance. No. No, his opponent had done it, had thrown his hand out and let his fingers brush what would have otherwise destroyed him.

And turned metal into water.

It could have sent the Reaper writhing in anguish back to Underworld, could have left him scarred beyond recovery if he had been left long enough. A part of him so completely loathed the metal worker that he had half a mind to return and slaughter him in a spectacularly bloody manner. But that would just be rude. Why kill a man who saved your life?

That understanding is what made him leave, what made him spare the human’s life. Even with the unexpected turn of events, Caliber couldn’t kill a man who bested him.

“Luck.” The reaper mutters to himself, “He was lucky.”

He knows he has to return to Underworld before the sun brightens. His eyes return to the factory as he remembers another issue he faces. He had failed to kill a thief, even if all others had been slain. Yet it wasn’t that fact that bothers him, but by the means that Zed eluded him. He possessed some great power, even if he wasn’t aware of it. If Caliber recounted what he saw, the First Quarter would surely want him destroyed.

Yet another good reason for him to end it now, but his conscious speaks otherwise. He would not kill him, not after what he had accomplished. In this thought, he chooses to refrain from even mentioning what Zed had done. If he had to explain why he did not kill him, fine, but he would lie. He would lie to keep his own ideals in check. The action would get him in into quite a web of deception, the punishment for such surely being more than a slap on the wrist and a scolding. Then again, he had never disappointed them before.

He groans, frustrated as he lays back against the grass, hearing the greenery burn beneath his weight. He hates having to think things through with such concentration. The effort causes him to spiral into a seemingly never-ending onslaught of thoughts, some he couldn’t fully understand. Death and mercy and when it is appropriate to deal out either one. In most situations, he chose death.

Now is not one of those situations.

The Reaper watches the sun begin to brighten, knowing it best to return now. With a long sigh he claws a rift beside him with a flaming hand, rolling into the portal it creates.

He emerges on the same hill, though his surroundings are vastly different. What was once an expansive, circular city of light is now plagued by shadows and fire. Underworld lacks in colors and life it has in its ability to intimidate any outsider. It is an industrial looking place, as if designed by the sentient inner workings of a clock. Steam and smoke rise from factories that even Caliber could not remember what they made. As he makes his way down the hill, building rise above him, their appearance less then flattering on the outside, though most likely far more substantial within. The only light sources are the torches lite for the convenience of demons less accustomed to the darkness and, of course, the moon.

Caliber glances up at the lunar body in the blackness above. It gave off little light now; it’s phase that of a crescent. His mind wanders to that off the thieves he had killed, save for Zed. One had mentioned their operation taking place during a new moon, when Underworld is at its darkest. The optimal time to be sneaking about the place, especially as an outsider.

He snaps back to his current thoughts, frustrated by his absent mind. It is unlike him to daydream, even if it isn’t as much dreams as much recollecting what he had already done. Death never lingers, never rests, and never strays on the souls of the living. Yet, he did, even though he fancies himself a courier of death itself.

In the distance, he observes the great, fortress-like building at the center of Underworld. It’s quite the sight even from afar, taking the appearance of some gothic cathedral, though heavily reinforced. With a shake of his head, he dives into flames, disappearing beneath the ground. He needs to travel quickly, especially if he wants to reach the First Quarter before the moon changes phase.

He appears just before the steps to the distant building he had admired, some royal blue flames trailing at his feet at his approach. A few other Reapers glance back at him as they ascend, grim as they are. None shared the particular uniqueness Caliber possessed, a uniqueness he doesn’t notice is flaunted. He can remember many Reapers rolling their eyes at his use a blue fire, a color that stuck out amongst the deep scarlet and obsidians of Underworld.

“Staring into space?”

The Reaper turns, facing another of his kind, one he vaguely remembers as Drake. He is a younger soul shepherd, small compared to most and fancying a scythe. The weapon hung on his shoulders, splashed with blood. He watches Caliber with deep red eyes, ones that failed to intimidate other demons but terrified humans.

“Does it matter?” Caliber responds with a question, some bitter taste still lingering in his mouth from his last encounter.

“It was just an observation, don’t get all defensive.” Drake responds, voice tinged with a bit of amusement, swinging the scythe onto the holder on his back, “You just seem a little lost in thought. And that’s saying something for you.”

Caliber’s eyes narrow, not in the mood, “And you seem a little like you want to get your head chopped off today.”

“Oh, so sorry.” His voice is laced with sarcasm. He heads up the steps again, adding as an afterthought, “I just wanted to take a shot at an Elite. You know, before you’re gone.”

The younger Reaper barely flinches when Caliber appears beside him in a wave of fire, stabbing his sword into the steps. The blade’s tip just barely missed his foot. Despite Caliber’s glare, the fellow demon doesn’t offer a gaze, closing his eyes and chuckling quietly.

Caliber keeps his voice steady, though the fire in his eyes lacks that stability, “If you’re going to threaten me, you better hope you can defend yourself.”

“I wasn’t threatening you. I’m not stupid.” He turns to him, a smirk playing on his face, “Didn’t you hear? The First Quarter want to see you. Personally.”

Some unknown terror grips at him, a rough, crashing wave of trepid anxiety. No one, not even members of the Elite spoke to the First Quarter. They were of the highest regard, the most powerful demons in all of Underworld. If they call for someone, it’s very rarely for any sort of encomium. In fact, it is for the exact opposite. Demons who are called there never seem to come out again.

Except, of course, if it’s in pieces.

He looks down at the ground, pulling his sword from stone stairs. He knows there is a paleness in his dark face, but he acts as though he’s the definition of calm, “Do you know why I was called to them?”

Drake had been continuing upward, stopping at the door and giving him a fanged grin, “No, and frankly, I don’t care. I just hope you have a lot of fun.” He speaks, disappearing in the door’s threshold.

Caliber stares after the demon with flat-lining irritation. He never liked that one, but that is beside the point. The First Quarter requesting his presence, that it the important thing. Did they really find out about his sparing of the metal worker so quickly? He would not be surprised despite it being barely an hour ago. He releases a heavy sigh, moving into the building with increased tension. If he would have to die for such an action than he must. He would accept it. However, there is some nagging feeling that his death is not what he marches to. It might just be his pride speaking with some useless comfort.

He moves down the hall, guards watching him as he traverses deeper into the inner passages of the building. Clearly, Drake was not joking. They were expecting him.

He is just around the corner from the throne room when he is knocked into the nearest wall by a figure already hurrying past him.

Caliber can’t help but speak up, “What is wrong with you? There is plenty of hallway.”

The demon hears a shuffle as he looks up. The figure that had shoved him staring back. He looks manically put together, wearing no armor of any sort, only fine though ragged clothes that look like they’ve just been picked off the floor. The image of him can only be described as deadly gorgeous, not to Caliber, but he is surely to any mortal that dare look at him, perhaps demons as well. His eyes are dark and rather bored as he looks at him. However, they slowly change the longer they linger, and then brighten as he suddenly bursts into laughter, covering his mouth before more noise spills out.

“What are you laughing about? Is it funny?” Caliber demands with narrowed eyes, though some part of him is telling his mouth to speak otherwise.

“Yes...” The man finally speaks, his voice velvet soft and sultry, though somehow still casual, as if he always spoke like that, “I find it _extremely_ so…Dare you question my amusement?”

Caliber is about to oblige but he stops himself, recalculating. He can’t stop his muscles from tensing up just slightly. He realizes now that the man in front of him is part of the First Quarter, where he is going now.

His sudden anxiety doesn’t go unnoticed. The man smirks, “Aw, child, don’t be so tense. I was terribly rude. Though I am very late.” He is still laughing. Caliber can hear it in his voice. He wants to think his amusement is simply because of the rudeness he had displayed before but it is almost as if the mere appearance of himself was hilarious to the man.

“I…uh…” the Reaper couldn’t form the words he wanted to say. He could apologize, perhaps, but some part of him felt the words to be inappropriate.

The man steps forward, patting his head like a father might to a small child, “Don’t strain yourself, you might break something.” He speaks quieter as the laughter in his voice wanes, “I really don’t expect much more then brawn from you.”

He turns on his heel, halfway down the hall before Caliber even has time to process the insult he has just received. Some amount of hurt is replaced by heavy irritation. Though he could have outright murdered Drake for his words, a First Quarter member can say whatever they please. The Reaper narrows his eyes at the demon’s retreat, knowing it is all he can do in retaliation to any sort of belittlement from him.

After he’s a good distance away, Caliber follows, muttering to himself. This day certainly wasn’t turning out well. Imagining it getting any worse is heart wrenching at best. He watches as the man opens the door at the end of the hall, though he pauses at the threshold, turning back and smiling at Caliber’s approach, making him stop in his tracks.

“You’re nervous, boy, I can sense it.” The man says, an untranslatable smirk curled on his face, “Don’t be. You have _nothing_ to worry about.”

“In all due respect,” Caliber speaks before he can stop himself, his fire talking for him, “I’d like to face whatever it is I got called down here for without the sarcasm.”

The demon’s smirk falters, then sets in again, “I could kill you for that, you know. But it’s rather…cute. No harm done.”

Caliber opens his mouth to most likely say something he’ll regret, but a voice within the room beyond interrupts him, “Jarek, would you like to join us?”

“Of course!” enthusiasm leaks from the man, Jarek, as he spins around and enters the room, “I was speaking with the Reaper. He’s really quite interesting.”

Caliber follows him promptly, surprised by the rather casual set up. The place looks far more like a den or living room then any place to hold meetings. Darkly fabricated couches and chairs around an absolutely massive, ordinate fireplace. Then again, many things are as such in Underworld, everything seeming impromptu and careless, lacking any true rigidity or order. If the First Quarter did not so well establish themselves as the most powerful and feared demons of their world, then there is doubt in any order existing at all.

Despite the near cozy appearance of the space, there’s a heavy darkness in the air, smothering any warmth you might have from the room. The smell, too, reeked of cremation. Though, judging by the size of the fireplace, it wouldn’t surprise him is someone _had_ been melted by the flames.

His observations are quick, for his attention is pulled from his surroundings to the demons residing within it. Two women sat just across from each other. One kept her feet up against the opposite end of the couch, dark hair falling in perfect ringlets around a pale face. The other looks similar, though something frightening hides behind her amber eyes. Another man stands just in front of the fireplace, watching the flames dance about, shadows cast on his face. Something in his muscles stiffens slightly at Caliber’s approach, the same occurring with the two women. He turns, scarlet eyes falling on the Reaper with unreadable expression.

The Reaper tries not to shift, attempts not to portray the uncomfortable feeling he had with their staring. He knows they see it, but he felt it best to pretend it isn’t actually there.

“My, my, “the darker haired woman speaks before anyone else, something youthful in her voice; something very nearly suggestive, “Your aura is striking.”

“Quite.” The other woman responds, “Like a wildfire.”

Jarek chimes in from behind, “I agree” he looks past them at the remaining man by the fire, “Do you think the same, Deimos?”

The demon at the fire, silent up to this point, doesn’t respond for a moment, then smiles calmly, “Yes. I do.”

Caliber clears his throat, standing a bit straighter, “Ah…thank you.”

Jarek pats his shoulder, making him tense as he chuckles, “I haven’t stabbed you yet, soldier. You’re too jumpy, as I said,” his hand lingers on his arm, stepping away, “And far too strong.”

“Leave him alone,” The head demon, Caliber hears his name as Deimos, speaks with lazy authority, “I’m sure your behavior relates to your lateness.”

“Oh, of course,” Jarek moves away, taking a seat by the dark-haired woman.

Caliber feels a thorough sense of uncomfortableness that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t keep the feeling, shaking it back into his recesses of his mind. He focuses ahead on Deimos, “I’m here…what is it you wanted from me?”

“This is not your death that you await, I will tell you that much,” He speaks gently, stepping away from the fire. This does relax the demon’s muscles, but only confuses him more.

He asks what he’s thinking with little eloquence, “Then why am I here?”

Deimos smiles; it is pleasant yet still manages to send a cold shiver down Caliber’s spine. He speaks with the same slow, careful tone as before, “You are one of the best, Caliber. We requested you here for a very important reason. But first I must entrust you with information that must never leave this room. Do you understand?”

His words are heavy, their meaning weighing even more. There’s a great amount of responsibility in them, a burden the Reaper dreads to bare. Yet, something within in him _wants_ to take it in stride, desires a challenge. With steely eye he nods, solidifying his decision, “I’m honored. I won’t tell anyone what you tell me here.”

“Good, I figured you’d understand.” Deimos says, eyes returning to the fire, “…Do you know your Gods?”

“Yeah, I mean, of course.” Caliber answers, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the names of the Gods the demons cherished, “There’s Kali, Aiday, Lysandros, Cade-“

“No.”

Caliber shuts off his speech, biting his tongue. The voice of the demon in front of him drastically changed. It is stronger somehow, laced with expert restraint. He sighs heavily, “Cadeyrn…Judgment has no place here. He is no God.”

This sparks a distant flame in the younger demon. Some strange anger that is almost random. He couldn’t place why as he shouldn’t have mentioned Cadeyrn, shouldn’t have even _thought_ of him. He has been taught since birth to deem the Judgment God as the Betrayer. He who revealed their plans for salvation to the Gods of the Sun. Even with this information, why did Caliber feel such resentment?

He swallows away the feeling away as he speaks again, “Of course, I’m sorry.”

This seems to please him as his glare settles. He says, “Do you remember what our great Gods said?”

“That they would return,” Caliber is quick to answer obediently, trying to salvage what he lost mentioning Cadeyrn, “And guide us through reincarnation…right?”

“Correct.” Deimos pauses for a moment as he continues watching the flames momentarily. His expression changes, as if someone is speaking to him that no one else could hear. He glances back at Caliber, “I am one of those reincarnations, Reaper. Xerxes is my God.”

Caliber’s eyes flash, feeling a venomous sense of shock. The demon in front of him claims to be the great God of Destruction, as least in reincarnation. How could that even be possible? To have a God being there so long and no one notice?

“That reaction was far more subdued than I would have liked to see,” the darker haired woman from before speaks, flipping strands of her locks behind her slender shoulders, “I’m disappointed.”

“Really? He exceeded _my_ expectations.” Jarek chimes in, laughter creeping in his voice, “Look there, Anastasia, he is as pale as a ghost.”

The woman, Anastasia, looks to Caliber with hardened eyes, “Do you find the revelation unsurprising?”

“No…no, I just…” the young demon’s words are tied, he desperately spits out the excuse, “It’s so surprising I guess I just…”

“Are stunned to silence?” Jarek chuckles, “Please, you are in the presence of Gods! I would be out the door by the point.”

_Gods?_

“Wait…” Caliber looks around the room, now fully understanding, “All of you…you’re all reborn.”

“You catch on quickly,” the second woman, who has been quite silent, says with a thin, barbed wire voice that itched at his hearing. The sound is terrifying, “I see why you are so well liked, perceptive as you are.”

Caliber cannot tell if she is being sarcastic or if the grinding power in her voice just made everything sound like horrible anguish.

“With that I hope you see the pattern,” Deimos continues as if the others in the room have never spoken, “Jarek hosts Lysandros, Anastasia to Aiday and Wyst to Kali.”

“How do you know?” the Reaper blurts, then retracts, rewording it, “I mean, how you found out about that sort of thing.”

Wyst smirks softly, “We hear them; their voices through the darkness. Divine voices. Deimos heard Xerxes first, who told him of our roles.”

“That voice, in fact, is why I called you here.” Deimos approaches them all as he speaks, “He had quite a topical request, it seems. We were just speaking about the Betrayer.”

“He spoke to me during the quarter moon, gave me a clue to his identity.” He lifts a hand, tracing a delicate arc in the air with his finger, “A crescent moon.”

Caliber’s mind immediately deviates to that of the demons known as Crescents. They are creatures born of fire yet hate it’s feeling, forged from darkness but crave the sun. Many Underworlders considered them outcasts, even if they didn’t, as many do, give up their demon blood to begin anew in Overworld. The Reaper doesn’t understand them himself, though also never bothers to be prejudice. You should not be judged for your birth and lineage alone, he thought, but for what you accomplish in your life, be it eternal or not.

“Does he mean to say that the Betrayer is a Crescent?” he asks, hoping the conclusion he made is logical.

Deimos nods, smiling, “I thought the same, despite the cryptic nature of the clue. I’m impressed you came to that conclusion yourself.”

The compliment is sincere, something that makes Caliber relax more. Speaking to the First Quarter, whose identities as Gods only furthers his anxiety, is like stepping through a minefield. A single misstep could mean your demise, yet making it through is worth praise at the very least. He wants them to like him.

He nods, “I thought so too.”

“Then you’ll surely accomplish this task in amble time.” Deimos speaks, his voice hardening slightly, “I want you to deviate from your gathering of souls for the time being, Reaper. Focus your energy on finding the Betrayer. If the Gods speak to us now, Cadeyrn surely tries to do the same with whichever vessel he chose.”

There’s weight in the older demon’s words, restrained urgency. Yet Caliber doesn’t pay much attention to it, “How will I know?”

Deimos pauses, a slight twitch in his expression, as if having an argument within his own head on how to respond, “If you suspect someone, tell me immediately, do not kill on sight.”

Disappointment finds its way on Caliber’s face. Killing on sight is half the fun sometimes. Jarek seems to notice this, chuckling softly under his breath, “Don’t make it so boring for him. Reapers aren’t the best as stealthy recon.”

“I wish to notice his identity beforehand, Jarek. He deserves to die a slow death.” He stops, smiling again, though there’s empty maliciousness in it, “And I want to watch.”

“Lovely. Such violence.” Jarek stands, moving the unkempt hair from his face, “I can’t hear about serious matters anymore. I have _things_ to do.”

“I’m sure they’re of the upmost importance.” Wyst says with a rolls of her eyes, standing and stretching out her stiff muscles. She bows shortly to Deimos, “I’ll take my leave as well.”

“Of course, go to your tasks, whatever they may be.” Deimos eyes Jarek as he says this, watching them all retreat silently. Feeling it a cue to leave, Caliber turns to the door. He had his task, and he is going to complete it.

Before he can fully depart, however, he feels a hand take his arm. He stops, looking back to Deimos who has seized it. He swallows quietly, “Is there more you want to tell me?”

“Oh…nothing much,” Deimos releases his arm, his smile cold, “I just happened to notice one less soul than you were required to retrieve. One less life taken.”

Caliber stares, realizing after all the commotion that he had forgotten about the metal worker. Zed. He doesn’t speak, watching the reincarnation as he backs away, “I’m sure you had your very legitimate reasons for sparing a single, insignificant life. I’ll ignore it, as you have something to accomplish.” He turns, moving to the fire so brilliant and smoldering the area in suffocating heat, “Just try not to be so merciful next time.”

“I won’t, never again, I promise,” Caliber decrees with a hasty bow, “I will not fail you or the others.”

“It be best you don’t.” Caliber doesn’t hear Deimos. That voice is gone, lifted to some divine altitude, “You’re dismissed.”

The young demon takes his leave quickly, almost sprinting down the hall, already perfectly fit to start his task. There are not many demons that dare become Crescents. However, there is still an ample amount to sift through for just Caliber alone. All of them can be considered betrayers simply for leaving their homeland. There is one he remembers though, one he hasn’t spoken to since they went into training together…

As he exits he looks out at the courtyard at a couple masses of shadow. Waning, as it seemed. They are lowly demons, found annoying by their kind as much as humans did. However, considering how utterly weak they were they didn’t mind if a couple trickled through their portals. He goes down the steps, noticing a larger mass along the small creatures. Curiosity strikes him easily as they lumber through an open portal. He moves faster, closing in on the vortex as the last of the Waning steps through.

He did need to get back to Overworld, might as well follow them.

He looks back at the cathedral, then back to the portal. With great burden and purpose on his shoulders, he moves into the vortex.


	4. Chapter 4

A wave of disappointment hits Grim as he exits the club. His ears are still ringing from the intense volume of the small space. Goosebumps linger like a second skin as he looks up sleepily at the sky. The sun has dimmed to a gentle illumination that soaks the horizon in coppery orange.  
  
It is his favorite time of the day. The sun got far too bright for his liking, his eyes could only stand the blinding rays for a couple hours before he feels the need to sleep for most of the day. He sometimes misses the endless night of Underworld.  
Then again, he didn't at all.  
  
The young man feels his stomach rumble, sighing as he remembers why he had reluctantly left the party before. They didn't serve food there, food he desperately needs. That is something he hates about Overworld functions.  
  
Souls were far easier to find.  
  
"Human hunger can go kill itself..." Grim mutters as he heads into a large plaza. The area is well-trimmed grass dotted with a cobblestone path. A marble fountain sits at the center. Grim can only hear the water trickled in the emptiness. He shivers, loathing the silence. He lifts his hand, touching the small, cordless buds in his ears. A second later music floods loud and prominent, the rhythms relaxing his muscles. The Overworld device is probably the best thing he ever purchased. Music is the only comfort he could possibly have in this world. That, and merciless judgment of others. That is always fun.   
  
He stops at the fountain, looking idly at his reflection. A lean, tan-skinned young man staring back at him with tired eyes. His eyes wander to the rustic gold of a rod extending from his shoulder and across his back. An orb, colored a soft aqua, reflects a small puddle on the path just below it. Grim smiles as he observes it. The weapon is invisible to the human eye, only upon a reverse image to others see it. If anyone were to see him armed casually in this world, it would call for immediate imprisonment. It took all of Grim's faulty charisma to convince the Mediators that he could not have it confiscated. They agreed only on the terms that he would keep it in his home.  
  
"Yeah. Alright," The young man says to himself, getting lost in his memories. It amuses him how utterly hypocritical Overworld could be. They are all about life and peace, yet the crossing to it involves an extensive line of defense. Every Mediator bearing some deadly weapon that screamed "no nonsense" for any demonic immigrants. It is too bad that Grim is not easily intimidated, especially when he had been so morbidly entertained by the extent that they go to in terms of security. Clearly, trust is a thing neither his people nor theirs exercise. Despite this, he is glad he left.   
  
In an instant he feels the goose bumps that were just being to linger away return with full force. The music he is playing almost seems to fade, muting the area into a fuzzing quiet.  
  
Without knowing that source of the sudden tension he switches off the buds, asking aloud, "What do you want?"  
  
He hears a sharp intake of fearful breath, prompting Grim's suspicion that whoever stood was human. There is no answer from behind him, only a contrastingly gentle breeze. Then, just barely, a subtle shriek of metal against leather.   
  
Grim moves with quick precision blocking the blade with his staff. The impact sends a disharmonious chime through the empty square. The sound seems familiar to him somehow, like the noise is part of a distant memory. As the young man refocuses, he meets the eyes if a boy, no older than sixteen, glaring at him with a fiery gaze. His grip on the sword, a rapier, tight.  
  
All sense of tension fizzles out of Grim, leaving nothing but shallow irritation as he says, "That's not how you greet people, kid." He speaks down to the boy, despite being, perhaps, only a couple years older.  
  
"Sh-shut up!" The boy cries, pulling out of the clash but by no means lowering the blade fully, " _Demon_!"  
  
"Woah there," Grim sighs, barely interested anymore, dropping the staff in a relaxed position as he feigns major offense, "Rude."  
  
The boy, however, doesn't fall for it, unamused by the older's casual behavior, "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Walking. What else?" Grim sighs, "but then you tried to stab me like a crazy person."  
  
"Because you're a monster!" The boy grumbles, losing his fire to the older's bored stare, "I am trained to kill people like you!"  
  
"No. You're training to kill demons like the Waning, not me." Grim rolls his eyes, "and you don't 'kill'. You 'banish' them back to Underworld. Demons don't die. What do they teach you at that school--?" The young man shuts off his rambling, already feeling more tired than he did before. He found out only two weeks into his new life that there is an academy specialized to deal with the Waning race of Demon. Those types don't care about the boundaries between worlds. He didn't blame them too much, they are only defending themselves, but to what extent he didn't know. If they taught their students to attack the first demon they see on the street then they aren't doing well in terms of education.  
  
Deliberately slow, the boy lowers his sword, "What are you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Yeah, you heard me...you aren't human, I know that much. No human has reflexes like that!" it sounds a lot like admiration to Grim. This makes him smirk.  
  
"I think you guys call me a Crescent." He says, leaning against his staff.  
  
The boy's eyes widen, "Shut up! You are not!"  
  
Grim's smirk turns into an all-out grin at the boy's amazed tone, "You think I'm lying?"  
  
"Yes! Demons have a certain energy to them, right? Yours is like..."  
  
Grim's grin fades just a little, "You probably felt wrong. I'm not much of a Demon anymore."  
  
The way he feels about the sentence is mixed. Overworlders call people like him Crescents, Demons giving up who they are to live along with the humans. When Grim first entered the place, he believed that things would be different. He had met with others of his kind, they spoke, looked and _felt_ human. It seemed like they were never Demons to begin with. He was alien to them. Despite going through the same process, the same tests and the same painful extraction of the venom in his blood, he still felt the same; A supernatural being, just with human hunger, human feelings. The other Crescents believed it only to be a side effect; that he would fade into normality soon.  
  
That time has yet to come.  
  
" _Hey_!"   
  
Grim physically jumps at the voice of the boy, looking over at him, "What?"  
  
"I've been saying that for an hour!" He over-exaggerates, "do you always stare off into space like that?"  
  
Grim holds his head, feeling a slight migraine emerging, "why don't you go home, kid?"  
  
There is silence in response.  
  
The older looks at the boy as he stares out at the open plaza, a hand on his sword, "you feel that, don't you?"  
  
In his infinite revere Grim had not noticed the overwhelmingly dark aura surfacing.  
  
"Great..." He scoffs, standing straight off his staff, "Waning."  
  
The boy jumps closer to Grim as figures pull themselves from the tiniest slivers of dark casted by the dim sun. The abominations of shadowy matter crawl with disproportioned limbs toward the two. Shards of metal and china cling to bits of fur or scales like some motley, grotesque art project. They snarl incessant, blurred gibberish. At least, to the boy it would be gibberish. Grim can understand it loud and clear.  
  
"What are they saying?" The boy asks, surprisingly little fear in his voice. His sword is at the ready, glaring at the Demons like he did to Grim before.  
  
"Betrayer," Grim answers wearily, having heard it before. He places his hands on his staff, tightening the grip, "What's your name, kid?"  
  
"Ryan...yours?"  
  
Grim swings his staff out as the first of the Demons pounces forward. It smacks into one of the stone buildings across the plaza in bone-crushing impaction. It withers, screeching from its broken form. Ryan stares out at the sheer distance the seemingly lean-figured young man could manage with wide eyes. The Crescent looks at him with new found energy in his dark eyes, "Grim."  
  
With that, he darts forward, willingly bounding into the fray. He slides past slashing claws and poisoned skin, slamming one Demon's representation of a skull into another. Lesser Waning were easy to dispatch, only being made of shrapnel and black flesh. They were fodder if not anything else.   
  
He spies Ryan holding his own against a small group of Waning. His rapier cuts through them cleanly, probably imbued with some holy energy. Grim bats another Waning away, hearing Ryan suck in a sharp breath.  
  
"Grim!"  
  
The impact came before the Crescent had any chance to react. A deep, rupturing blossom of pain spiked his side, then his back as he hits what he groggily processed was the head of the fountain before splashing roughly into the bath.  
  
He curses in his native tongue, a mess of unknown phrases damning existence as red stains the water. His hand grips a gash across his side, the edges of the wound seer acidic burns on his far weaker mortal form.   
  
The Crescent looks up at the attacker, another Waning, roughly conceptualized in the form of a rabid bull, its eyes nothing but red, one of its misplaced horns painted with Grim's blood. Ryan is far on the other side, out of the demon's sight but frozen like a statue as his terrified eyes scan the beast.   
  
With an effort, Grim stumbles up to the edge of the fountain, his eyes spotting his staff at the foot of the Waning bull's hooves. It lowers its head, speaking in broken, snarling tongue, _"Betrayer...you think you are safe hiding from your kind? You dare cast aside you power for such a weak sack of flesh?"_  
  
Grim is silent, but his eyes darken, phasing like the moon, although he doesn't notice.   
  
The Waning bull watches the young man, culminating in one slight step back, _"Do you deceive? Your eyes speak lies from the rest of your kind."_  
  
Grim drops his head, verbally, he begins to hum, almost unconsciously, as if merely in a comforting dream. His voice a gentle falsetto, but barely above a whisper. The softness of the hymn confusing to the Waning.  
  
Within a couple seconds it became clear. He lifts up his bloody hand, the wicked gash beneath mending slowly to his song. He can hear music play, despite knowing his buds are off. It has happened before, and at this point he could care less.   
  
_"I see...I understand why the Elite have targeted you."_  
  
Grim stops humming abruptly, so too does the music, looking up slowly, and his ears ringing all sound into mute stillness.   
  
"Lana..." He says, looking away from the beast once again, now clicking on his buds with an exaggerated yawn "I'm getting sick of this."  
  
His staff is the only one of respond, the aqua orb radiating blinding light. The demons hiss, moving away from the rays as if it burns. The Waning bull narrows his eyes at the Crescent, angered by his obliviousness.  
  
"Smash them to dust!" Ryan suddenly blurts from his corner, drowned by Grim’s music though he could see determination in his expression.  
  
"Oh…we are _way_ past that," Grim could feel an odd electricity in his eyes as Lana, his staff, whips toward him. He catches it, balancing it behind him as a curved, luminescent blade extends from the orb. He smiles with some sort of malevolent grace, speaking theatrically in the Waning's language, _"I'm going to cut them to ribbons"_  
  
With rapid speed he darts forward, swinging the blade in a savage arch. The scythe barely hesitating as it slices effortlessly through the fleshy beings, spilling toxic blood onto the grass.  
  
Ryan watches in awe against the wall. The scythe seems almost too big for the Crescent as he swings. Yet, every ounce of extra momentum is consumed in elegant, ruthless artistry. Grim rolls to the side, dodging another charge from the Waning bull, red soaking the blade of his scythe.  
  
The bull wheels back toward Grim and the deteriorating bodies of his allies. He hisses, _"Petulant child, killing your own kind. You say you've abandoned us but The Elite still paints your mortal heart."_  
  
Grim stands, half-turning to the bull, his expression everything but welcoming, "The Elite can go stab themselves with the nearest blade for all I care."  
  
 _"You were one of them. You could have been among the finest."_  
  
"I'm already one of the finest," Grim speaks with expert condescension, tilting his head just slightly to the side, "I thought we were all supposed to be on the same team."  
  
 _"That will change soon, Grim.”_ He speaks cryptically, _"And I will drag you back to where you belong."_  
  
The Crescent laughs breathlessly, shaking his head, "Good luck with that."  
  
With a final growl, the bull charges forward. Grim stands his ground, waiting. His music builds as he charges. Swiftly, to the beat, he sweeps his scythe upward just as the demon reaches him, hooking the blade directly into his jaw. It lets out a roar as Grim yanks the heavily boned head away from the body, slamming it down on the dying ground. He almost unconsciously clicks the music off, the other blood-splattered hand still holding tight to his weapon.  
  
Silence reigns, save the dulling ring that curses Grim's ears. He rips the scythe from the severed head as the large body crumbles, vanishing into black dust.  
  
He twirls the scythe, the blade vanishing back into the staff. Turning, he walks with a quick pace to Ryan who sits against the wall, his eyes wide. The boy looks up at him, "That was amazing..."  
  
Grim kneels to him, observing a cut across Ryan's shoulder, "You're bleeding."  
  
Ryan seems to just notice this, "Wow...ouch. Um...can you maybe do that...thing you did?" He points toward the fountain where Grim had healed himself.  
  
"Oh...that only works on me," He admits, touching where the ugly gash had been, "I don't know why. So don't ask."  
  
Ryan frowns, staring, fixated on something.  
  
"What are you looking at?" Grim demands, far too impatient to be gentle.  
  
Before the boy can answer, there is a booming voice that calls from across the plaza, _"Ryan!"_  
  
The two look toward the approaching man, a broad shouldered figure armed with a crossbow on his back. His expression is mute as he steps past the cartilage to stand by them.   
  
Grim stands straight, looking at the man with the same blankness. Ryan stands as well, "Mr. Hocks...I--"  
  
"Now, what are you doing out her at Dim Hours? You’re supposed to be asleep." His voice is stern but not rude.  
  
"I know but...I was bored and then..." He gestures to the decaying life in the plaza, "but Grim did everything."  
  
Mr. Hocks looks at the Crescent with a slightly less neutral expression, "Grim...that's your name then?"  
  
"Yeah. And I should go." He answers, moving past him, but the man takes his shoulder. He tenses, slapping his hand away as gently as possible, "please don't touch me."  
  
Mr. Hocks frowns, genuinely apologetic as he speaks, "I'm sorry. But..." His expression changes, revamping the subject, "your eyes...I've never seen anything like them." He pulls out a knife at Grim's confused look, holding up the reflective surface eye level to the young man.  
  
Grim observes his eyes, immediately looking away, knowing the image. Thin blue crescents edge the rim of each iris like the midnight moon.   
  
"I will admit I saw the whole thing," Mr. Hocks drops the knife, "You are something fierce in battle."  
  
"Why didn't you help out your kid?" He gestures to Ryan, but avoids the teacher's gaze.  
  
"Ryan isn't useless," The instructor looks at the boy with a smile, "He knows how not to die. And you seemed to be doing fine on your own."  
  
"But now I'm tired. And I'm going to be sore tomorrow," Grim crosses his arms, sighing dramatically. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate being complimented, it is that he didn't want to be doing work he didn't need to do. The Waning were not supposed to be getting past the walls of Overworld. Only at certain points were Demons allowed to reap dead souls.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, but I was captivated..." He smiles, "Have you ever thought about the academy?"  
  
"No." Grim says bluntly, "I don't know if you noticed but I'm not exactly popular with my kind or your kind as of a year ago. I don't need to be learning how to handle myself. I do fine on my own."  
  
"I didn't mean learning. I meant teaching." The teacher smiles as Grim’s stare changes to that of surprise.

“You want me to _teach?”_ Grim didn’t know if he should be hilariously flattered or drastically concerned, “That sounds like it wouldn’t go well.”

“It probably won’t. But I think it would be a nice change, something different,” Mr. Hocks’ smile turns wide, “And I think you are some kind of special, kid.”

The Crescent looks down at himself, soaked with blood and hot from exhausted energy. He knew for a fact that the academy would despise a creature like himself. He’s seen soldiers from the gate watch him like he would go haywire any second. He didn’t need that judgment on him. He loathed being judged. If anyone is going to be testing anyone, it would be him.

He realizes he is losing the argument to not take the offer. He quickly shakes his head, “No. I’m not doing any of that. I’d rather not get glares every day and hope one of your students doesn’t kill me in my sleep.” He steps away, walking toward the nearest alley.

“You know, as I recall, Crescents are not allowed to be armed,” The teacher suddenly pipes up just as Grim’s feet touch the shadows. He looks over at him, staring.

“Excuse me?” He asks, about the only thing he can register.

“I mean, it would be a shame…losing such a unique weapon.” Despite what he is saying, Mr. Hocks is smiling fiercely, Ryan next to him, barely hiding a grin.

Grim fully turns, “You’re not—“

“Ryan,” the teacher looks to his student, “How long would it take for a Mediator to get here?”

“About ten seconds via portal,” He answers obediently, but still with a horrible grin plastered on his young face.

“By Xerxes…you are,” Grim laughs, not even caring what God he is referring to, barely believing what is happening, “You’re blackmailing me.”

“Well that’s a harsh way of putting it…consider it… _severe persuasion_ ,” Mr. Hocks corrects, “Besides, I heard the homes they give Crescents are horrible.”

“They are--” Grim answers without thinking, about to change his answers but now realizes how pinned he really is. He watches the two with crescent eyes, slowly sighing out, “I guess I don’t have a choice then.”

“Not really…” Ryan points out.

“Let me lead us back,” He takes hold of the front, prompting the two younger men to follow. Ryan heads forward, Grim behind reluctantly.

“So is Grim really your name?” the younger asks, his eyes big as he watches him, “Why would they name you after an emotion?”

“My mother said she called me that because that’s what I looked like when I was born,” Grim answers, “I didn’t cry, didn’t laugh, didn’t do anything. Apparently she thought I was dead.”

“Wait…how are demons even born?”

The older rolls his eyes, “We fall from the sky and into their arms from a crack in the moon. Most die because they don’t get caught.”

“Woah…” Ryan gasps, but frowns, recalibrating, “Wait, are you being sarcastic?”

The older slowly looks at him, heightening his voice and going to great pains the have as much acidic sarcasm in his voice as he can possibly muster as he speaks very slow, “No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”

“Ryan, don’t pester him,” Mr. Hocks says from the front.

The young soldier, already deterred from Grim’s heavily insulting tone, looks down at the ground, “Sorry…”

Grim looks out at the carefully carved buildings and the dim sun in the distance. It was rather beautiful, the way the colors fused against the trees and marble. He clicks his music back on, a soft, gentle hymn singing now. However, he stops, feeling a nagging presence. He glances behind, seeing a mass of shadow from across the plaza. There is a great, cracked sword visible in the darkness. He watches as Grim does, both frozen in time, as if compensating for a mental conversation no one could hear.

A quick flash of fire slashes across the figure, leaving only empty space in his wake.

“Grim?” Mr. Hocks says from behind.

“Coming…” Grim says, slowly turning back.

“What was that all about?” Ryan asks, highly curious as he seems to be.

“Nothing…” The Crescent says, “I like to daydream.” His lie is poorly crafted but it seems to please them as they continue moving forward. Grim follows, preoccupying himself with the music he is listening to, letting it carry him off to a less stressful place.


End file.
